


BELLITANUS: or, The Antiquarian's Tale

by Karolis



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Constellations, Fairy Tale Style, Gen, Origin Story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-26
Updated: 2019-06-26
Packaged: 2020-05-20 06:28:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19371274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Karolis/pseuds/Karolis
Summary: "I have traveled often to that strange, damp shop of wonders known as the Black Emporium -- driven, I must admit, as much by a macabre fascination with the proprietor as by the treasures he offered for sale. My efforts to hide my true motives were apparently less than perfect, for on my third or fourth visit, Xenon broke from his custom of pithy commentary and delved, instead, into a more personal tale..."How Xenon came to be, as related by the creature himself to Karolis Genitivi.





	1. Editor's Note

**Author's Note:**

  * For [stitchcasual](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stitchcasual/gifts).



The tale that follows is best understood in relation to, and in conjunction with, the contents of certain other archival material. To that end, we reproduce here the most salient of those documents, that the reader may refresh themself with respect to extant literature.

 

***

#### Codex Entry: Xenon the Antiquarian

_From a letter of unknown origin, 8:49 Blessed_

You received the invitation? Then you are fortunate, indeed. Xenon is no ordinary man, as you will discover for yourself when you enter the Black Emporium. The... item you'll see resting in the chair is not one of the displays; rather, it is the proprietor. It may speak to you—that's Xenon, using the mystical bauble that has allowed him to communicate since he lost the power of speech.

The story tells that Xenon was a Kirkwall nobleman in the Age of Steel, almost three hundred years ago. Obsessed with the pursuit of eternal life, he made a deal with a powerful witch (some say it was the legendary Antivan "Witch of the Weyrs"), and his wish was granted. He obtained eternal life—but not eternal youth. His body became decrepit, and he used his vast wealth to seek out ways to preserve it. Some were magical, many were dangerous, and almost all of them were unsuccessful.

What remains is an immobile mass of twisted flesh—and I think Xenon's mind has slowly decayed along with his body. He hid away in the Undercity and has slowly amassed a collection that's sure to amaze. If he invited you, he thinks you have the coin he needs to further his search for a cure.

 

***

#### Codex Entry: The Constellation Bellitanus

_From “A Study of Thedosian Astronomy”, by Sister Oran Petrarchus_

Referred to as "the Maiden" in common parlance, depictions of the constellation Bellitanus vary from one Age to the next. It has always been considered fashionable for prominent women of the day to be declared the Maiden's personification. [...] None of these women would likely appreciate the fact that Bellitanus is believed to have originally referred to Urthemiel, the Old God of Beauty.


	2. From the Journal of Karolis Genitivi

_I have traveled often to that strange, damp shop of wonders known as the Black Emporium -- driven, I must admit, as much by a macabre fascination with the proprietor as by the treasures he offered for sale. My efforts to hide my true motives were apparently less than perfect, for on my third or fourth visit, Xenon broke from his custom of pithy commentary and delved, instead, into a more personal tale. As soon as I realized what he was saying, I scrabbled for a quill and ink and began recording his words on such parchment as was available: my own tunic, then my leggings, and, finally, my very flesh. I dared not risk the crevasses of my own poor memory. And besides, it seemed a peculiar sort of poetry, to inscribe the story of such withered bones on skin still flush with life..._

_He started speaking of a sudden, as always, and just as I was tracing the contours of a particularly fine knife grip. I think I may have murmured, in admiration of the craft, the word “beautiful”..._

 

 

**ONCE!**

Once, I too was beautiful.

Golden-apple-cheeked! Marvel of the marches! A spring chicken in every step! 

\--Now, now, don't scoff so. You'll teach Urchin ill manners.

Once, I too was young.

 

***

 

Oh, I lived a fine life, then. A mansion upon a hill! A feast upon the table! A suitor in every pillowcase! Wealth we had in plenty, for those who dream of wealth; power enough, for those who crave it; I was the youngest child of six, but the best loved of them all.

And! And I was _beautiful_ . More than beautiful. A legend in the _flesh_ ! A masterwork of human _grace_! Painters threw themselves before me in the streets and begged my presence in their studio! Master sculptors wrestled one another for the privilege of chiseling my form in marble! 

And yet! And yet, I was not content. Ah, no. A small, cold pit of darkness was ever present in my heart. Because I knew, even then, that it -- that I -- could not last forever.

What doom, what a nightmare, is cruel mortality! Tomorrow and **tomorrow and** **_TOMORROW_** did not creep but _flew_ before me, until every night I sobbed upon my pious knees! Dread curled round my toes at every dawn! Each day that ended and rose anew was one day closer to my own inevitable **DEATH**!

Well, I always was a sensitive child.

Then came war. My sisters all went off to fight, arrayed in arms and splendor! And arrived, one by one, home again, in solemn reports and remnants of badges. Dead. All dead.

Then came plague, on war’s heels LIKE A TOO-FAITHFUL NUG!

I was something of a Mamma’s boy, you know. Don’t look so surprised; it’s true. My father withered in a _week_. But not even I could keep Mamma from the dark and slavering jaws of plague and death. She perished with her head upon my lap. She perished, and I stayed, day after night, motionless as though I too had died…

UNTIL A _WORM_ FELL FROM HER NOSE!

Upon which event I shook myself and thought: _that is quite enough of that._

There are certain things one simply **CANNOT ALLOW**. One must maintain one’s boundaries. The spirit, however loving or charitable or kind, has its limits, and that was mine. 

**A WORM FELL FROM HER NOSE!**

I shuddered and I thought: _that will be me one day._

I thought: _I too will die._

I thought: _the worms will come._

I thought: _a worm will fall from my nose, and a sculptor will enshrine that worm in marble._

I thought: _this fate I must prevent. AT ALL COSTS!_

And so I went, as one does in times of existential distress, to find a witch.

 

***

Which witch? 

 _The_ witch... with which one not a witch may accomplish whichever wish so be-twitches him. The Watcher of the Weyrs. The witch of the wilds. The _only_ witch that matters. My witch.

And don’t interrupt. You ask such _stupid_ questions.

 

***

I found her in the swamps, as is only right and proper.

 _Swooping_? Well, yes, of course she was swooping. I really don’t think they can help it, the poor things. It’s in their nature. 

But what did I say about interrupting?

***

I found her in the swamps, beneath a sky riddled with stars, and I bound her thrice with honeyed words and bade her grant me life eternal.

I have always found witches to be rather ornery creatures. Ornery, _and venal_. She wanted payment. PAYMENT!

I offered her my cloak, sewn of one hundred silken furs. I offered her my manor house, whose grapevines gleamed like gems. I offered her every last bit of wealth I owned. FINALLY! in desperation, I said: “Anything. Anything in my power to give, take it. It is yours. Only make me live forever.”

And she smiled very sweetly, and agreed. 

“It will take some time,” she said. “There are three rituals I must prepare. For the first, meet me when next the moons are darker than the treetops. You will see the way before you.”

***

AND THUS IT WAS! I had waited only a week when my eyes opened, of their own accord, at midnight. I walked, as in a dream, along a road of silvered webs, until I reached the clearing deep within the forest where the witch awaited me. Around us ancient trees reached fingers to a sky pockmarked with stars.

“This,” she said, “will make you immune to any illness. Close your eyes. Don’t look.”

So I closed my eyes. I didn’t look! I heard around me the whispers of a thousand tiny creatures. Then a great wind arose, with a howling as of distant wolves, and when it had abated all the whispers were silenced. 

“It is done,” said the witch. “Open your eyes.”

I opened my eyes and was standing in my own house, before the empty hearth. In one hand I held a paper, and on that paper was scrawled -- with, I may add, **quite abominable** penmanship -- a message: 

 

> _This I claim as payment: the memory of your piercing gaze._
> 
> _Meet me when next the moons are bright within a storm._

***

A month passed! And then, just as before: my eyes opened, of their own accord, at precisely midnight. Dreamily I walked along a silvered thread to a shoreline lashed by storms, where the waves towered and crashed upon the rocks, but above which the moons were full, and the sky spattered with stars.

“This,” said the witch, “will make you impervious to injury. Close your eyes. Don’t look.”

So I closed my eyes. I didn’t look. Around me rose the _clash_ and _clangor_ of a thousand soldiers at battle: of sword upon plate, of shouts and of screams and the last gasps of prayer. Then a great wind arose, and spat into my face a rain that tasted of ale and laughter. When it died down, all was silent.

“It is done,” the witch declared. “Open your eyes.”

I opened my eyes and was in my own house, before my rumpled bed. In one hand I held a paper, damp and smelling of salt, and on that paper was scribbled a message:

 

> _This I claim as payment: the memory of your charming smile._
> 
> _Meet me when next the moons are cleft in twain._

_***_

BUT! BUT AND HOWEVER! A month passed, and then two, and then six. I began to fret. I began to fume! I sought the witch again, in swamps and in puddles and in disreputable taverns, but found no sign. 

I began to see clocks everywhere. I heard their infernal ticking in my dreams. Time, that thief of all things good! Time was passing! TIME!

Time FLIES! Time flies like an arrow.

And fruit flies like **A BANANA!**

But I digress. I waited through long and dreary weeks, until one day I beheld, in the mirror, a _wrinkle_ upon my brow. **AND I WEPT!**

***

The very next night, just at midnight, my eyes opened of their own accord. I wept once more, of relief and of righteous fury. But I followed the silvered thread to a looming mountaintop, whose peak was so narrow and so high that, silhouetted against the conjoined moons, it cut them exactly into two. Around them the sky was laden with stars.

I climbed the mountain. It was cold, but I did not feel it. It was steep, but I did not falter. I climbed and climbed, and at last I gained the peak. The witch stood _waiting_ , with a certain smugness in her stance.

“Now for the final stage,” she said. “It will keep you safe from time itself.” And then she paused. “This place is dangerous. It is a mountain where things are unmade, a place of tearing apart and rending asunder. I must warn you: keep your eyes well closed. Do not look.”

Oh, she was **insufferable** , that witch. She thought me no more than a mewling infant! A person of no consequence! Who could be kept waiting, and waiting, and **WAITING**! Until a wrinkle grew upon his  _HERETOFORE UNBLEMISHED_ **_BROW!_ **

Still, I closed my eyes. I didn’t look. I felt the air around me grow very cold, and very empty, and very, very still. I heard...nothing. Nothing at all.

 _She has left,_ I thought.

_She has abandoned me here on this wretched peak._

_She has cheated me! She has left me here for_ **_DEATH_ ** _ITSELF! I will die, I will **die** and _ **_A WORM_ ** _WILL FALL_ **_FROM MY VERY NOSE!_**

So I opened my eyes. In the space of one breath I saw before me the witch’s golden eyes with their unnatural calm; the bright eyes of the moons in the sky; the shadowed peak which had become a cave -- no -- which had become a single enormous mirror. And in that mirror I saw myself, hand outstretched as though trying to scrabble for a hold while falling, falling -- **and I fell.**  

I fell straight into the mirror, which yawned open to admit me, and into what lay beyond. I looked and I saw and I fell.

**I FELL.**

***

Sundermount cannot help but sunder. It’s rather like witches and their fell  _swooping_ , you know. It’s how the world works.

Sundermount _sundered_ me entire from the passage of time, and I fell.

I fell into an emptiness in which I was myself and not myself. I fell into my own life and it blossomed around me. It bloomed into _every instant_ I had ever lived or would, or might _,_ or  _could_  live, _budding flower_ into FRUIT **AT ONCE!** EVERY MOMENT TOGETHER! 

Outside of time

**EVERYTHING!**

IS!

NOW!

I WAS MYSELF! **I WAS ALL OF MY SELVES!** They were too many for a mind to comprehend. Humans are not made to survive out of time. I WAS MYSELF AND I WAS _BURNING --_!

I saw myself-the-child and I grasped at him! I saw myself-the-youth and I snatched at him! 

I saw the witch reach out her hand and with the last shred of comprehension I realized that she was not one of _me_ and I felt her hand on the scruff of my neck and **TIME** snapped back into place. 

It made a noise like an injured elastic. 

Sometimes, when business is slow, I attempt to mimic that noise myself. _But_  only rarely, because Urchin disapproves.

***

The witch hauled me from that mirror, a drowned kitten of a man dripping shards of too many memories, and she _smiled_. 

“It is done,” she said. “I have what I need, and you will never die.” 

She smiled, and her teeth were like a hundred axes that glittered with all the light of the moons and the stars.

***

She spoke the truth. I have not died. Plagues never harm me, nor do blades pierce me, nor yet can time ever lay claim to my spirit. 

 **BUT!**

But I had asked for life: not for everblooming youth with its everlasting beauty. And so she took it from me, there on the cold mountain, as I stood crawly-skinned with memory. She took it as one might peel a thin layer of dried adhesive from one’s palm: very, very carefully and with great satisfaction. I stood, immortal, on the peak of Sundermount, as a witch stole my glorious youth --

and laughed --

and fed it to the _hungry, hungry stars._

For that is what she did: and the evidence remains marked upon the sky for all to see.  _There,_ you see?  --the glint of my piercing gaze. _There_ is the light of my charming smile. And _there_ is the unparalleled loveliness of my form, golden-apple-cheeked, Marchland marvel of perfection.

It’s why I insist upon having that window, you know. Urchin polishes it with silken cloth every sunset. 

The sky aligns only rarely. I account it a great event when it does. For that night only I allow Urchin to hang the “Closed” sign on the door of the Emporium: because, for that single hour, I will do _nothing else_ but gaze at that fine spectre of myself, picked out in webs of starlight.

THE BEAUTY OF IT.

_THE BEAUTY._

**THE BEAUTY.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With apologies to Greek mythology, Gilgamesh, William Shakespeare, and haters of text formatting.


End file.
